


Deal With It

by owlpockets



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlpockets/pseuds/owlpockets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Tony bond over food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal With It

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly movieverse, with some bits from the comics. Probably less slashy and more friendshippy. This is one of those things where I was several hundred words in before I realized what I was doing. There needs to be more of this pairing.

“I don’t understand why you people never use your own apartments. I built them, but there’s always at least one of you in this guest suite. Keyword: guest. It’s for guests, not to be used as a frat house.”

As usual, there were videogame controllers crisscrossing the floor, an abundance of pillows poached from the guest bedrooms, cups _everywhere_ , and the kitchen looked like a tornado had gone through. Everything smelled strongly of cookies. Tony was intimately acquainted with household messes, being quite adept at creating them himself, but he was pretty sure this apartment had already had to be cleaned twice that week. 

Natasha and Bruce looked over at him calmly and shrugged simultaneously. Steve had the decency, at least, to look mildly apologetic. “Sorry,” he said with a small smile. On the screen Steve’s character feel off a cliff and Natasha raised both arms in silent victory. “Oh, balls.”

“Just because you are an antisocial headcase doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.” Clint walked by from the kitchen, a plate—no, a whole platter—of fresh cookies in his hands. He shook his head slowly. “I bet you don’t even like cookies.”

“That’s…not the point.” Tony made a wild grab for one on the edge of the platter, but Clint was far too fast for him. “The point is that I don’t get why, with the excessive amount of built-in personal space in this building, you still prefer to be confined to one room.”

“It’s easier than arguing over which of our apartments to use,” Natasha answered.

“I just go along with whatever they’re doing,” Bruce added.

“Habit?” said Steve.

Clint looked at him oddly and finally offered the cookie platter. “If you don’t like it why did you invite us to live here?” he asked, but the tone was low and confidential, obviously not for the other’s ears. Tony was honestly stumped.  
__

 

“What is that?” Tony had been subjected to quite a bit of unusual cuisine in social situations, some pretty good and some truly awful, but whatever Clint was making looked entirely new and heavy enough to brain someone.

“A cheesecake.”

Tony considered this answer and found it to be lacking. “No, I think that is the genetic monstrosity that would happen if a cheesecake and a pie ever figured out how to breed.”

“It’s a heart attack in a pan, I know. Nat already came by and commented extensively.” Clint positioned the pan on a shiny metal trivet with awkwardly mittened hands. Tony wasn’t even aware he owned trivets, but there was one right there that matched perfectly with the décor. “But, dammit, I’m making it anyway.”

“I never pegged you for the chef type.”

Clint shrugged. “You would get desperate enough too if you had to eat in the SHIELD cafeteria three meals a day. You want some?”

“Yes? No? Honestly, I’m kind of terrified of that thing.” The amount of hours in the gym required to counteract the effects of that cheesecake probably numbered in the hundreds range.

“Well, you better stake a claim now if you do. You know it won’t last five minutes with Steve in the house.”

Tony chuckled. “Before him I didn’t know it was possible for one person to eat so much in a twenty-four hour period.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Clint agreed.

“Yeah, alright, give me a piece of that monstrosity. Small piece.”

Clint stuck a toothpick with a little red plastic tuft on it near the edge. “It’s gonna be a few hours before it’s solid enough to cut, might as well come back later.”

“Uhh right, of course,” Tony said dumbly. He turned to go back to his lab, paused, and suddenly had a wild, totally unsolicited urge to ask, “Hey, do you want to watch a movie?”

Clint looked surprised at first, but then he grinned. “Sure, but I get to pick since I so generously offered you some of my cheesecake.”  
__

 

The clock blinked to 1:00 AM, but Tony barely registered that it was getting late. He sat with his legs drawn up on the couch, eyes glued to a set of problematic blueprints for his helmet displayed on a tablet. He’d given up tinkering with the physical pieces two hours ago in frustration, hoping a change of scenery and reexamining the original plans would help shake out the solution. So far it hadn’t, but he was too stubbornly involved with the work to give up for the night. Or maybe he was too tired to know when to quit; it was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

There were vague sounds of cabinets opening and closing coming from the kitchen, which meant at least one other person was still up. Tony paid it no mind, wishing to stay uninterrupted. A few short minutes later he was interrupted anyway, by a plate suddenly appearing in his peripheral vision and landing on the coffee table. There was a stack of bread, meat, lettuce, and various other food items arranged on it, but his preoccupied brain couldn’t register the significance.

“I made you a sandwich.”

“Okay,” Tony answered because it seemed to be expected. He looked up and noticed Clint leaning against the arm of the couch, an eyebrow raised over his otherwise flat expression. 

Oh. Sandwich. Dinner. Tony’s brain rebooted like the slow turn over of a cold engine. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I do remember to eat most of the time, you know.”

“Yeah, but I got tired of watching you eat cold cuts straight out of the package at three in the morning.” 

Right, well, that was probably the weirdest confession he had heard in a while. And Clint had a spectacular poker face when he wanted, the jerk. Tony bypassed an explanation for his behavior and focused on the part that struck him as incredibly odd. “Why are you watching me at the three in the morning? Creeper.”

“You’re a pretty observant guy, but you know what your biggest weakness is? You never look up.”

Tony didn’t know how to respond to that other than to be privately and thoroughly weirded out. He was definitely having JARVIS look through all the security footage in the morning. “Why did I let two assassins move into my tower again?” he asked, but Clint had already left. Tony had a fleeting panic that the sandwich was poisoned, but he ate it anyway. Clint made really good sandwiches.  
__

 

“Fucking hell, Clint, would you stay down already?” Natasha growled, clearly becoming frustrated. “You’re going to rip your stitches and then you _will_ be spending the night in medical.”

“Come on, Nat. It’s just a flesh wound. I wanna take a shower and make something to eat. It’ll be fine.”

His protests were met with an emphatic no, and Tony almost laughed. If he had more energy he would have. Instead, he collapsed in a heap in the armchair closest to the couch where Clint was forcibly laid out. “Go check in with Fury, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Natasha looked dubious about this plan, as she surely had good reason to. Clint was not helping his case by feigning innocence in the form of folding both hands over his ribcage. What a faker. “The second you turn your back he’ll be gone, you know,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I have a plan.” Tony’s plan did not involve moving a muscle and perhaps taking a nap where he was. Natasha didn’t have to know that.

“Does your plan involve letting Clint do whatever he wants as soon as I leave?”

“Really, you should have more faith in me. I have my ways.” Tony gave her a thumbs-up and let his hand drop limply back onto the armrest.

“So reassuring,” Natasha said dryly, but she was almost smiling. Tony counted that as a victory in his long uphill battle to win her over. She left without saying goodbye.

“Barton, if you move off that couch I will end you,” Tony told him without much conviction. “…After I recover the use of my limbs,” he added.

“You’re not very threatening.”

“Natasha will end you.”

“No doubt,” Clint conceded, making a face. He looked a lot worse than he talked, vaguely ashen and limiting his movements to small hand gestures now. It occurred to Tony that all that rebellion must have been a show for Natasha so she wouldn’t worry.

“How about a pizza? I know a place that might pass muster for Chef Barton’s discerning tastes. It’ll be better than the SHIELD cafeteria at least, now that I’ve had that unforgettable experience.”

“That was sheer dumb luck that you ended up having to eat there on mystery meat day. Even Fury skips mystery meat day and he’s married to the place. But yeah, pizza would be awesome. Sausage and green peppers for me.” Clint sounded relieved, which Tony was expecting. He sympathized—every bit of muscle in Tony’s body felt hot and tight, and he knew it was going to hurt worse the next day. Moving was just not an option for either of them.

“Jarvis, order us two pizzas. The usual for me, and what Clint said.” Tony realized he would probably have to get up to actually get the pizza at the door. Though, maybe, he could get one of the robots to carry it over….

“Of course, sir. It will be arrive in thirty minutes. I can allow the pizza deliver man temporary access to the guest level, if you like.”

“You’re a genius, Jarvis.”

Clint shifted on the couch with a pained grunt. “Man, I am starving. That pizza better…hurry up.” He had to pause to catch his breathe in the middle.

“Flesh wound my ass,” Tony muttered. As much as his muscles were protesting, Clint looked supremely uncomfortable. He heaved himself out the chair and knelt by the couch, shoving an arm under Clint’s shoulders. “Here, sit up a bit.”

Clint complied without any smart-ass remarks, which was worrying, but allowed Tony to get another pillow under him more or less unhindered. “Thanks.”

“You’re not about to suddenly expire on me, are you?” Tony was only half joking. From what he understood, Clint was a very bad judge of the severity of his personal injuries. He’d gotten a cursory exam at SHIELD medical when they stitched up the wound, but that didn’t exclude any number of other serious and latent problems.

“No, I was planning to keel over in the pizza box just to traumatize you,” Clint answered.

“Fair enough. There are worse ways to go.” Tony stayed on the floor, leaning up against the side of the couch, partly because he wanted to be sure Clint was comfortable and partly because he wasn’t positive his knees would cooperate.

Clint closed his eyes, one hand coming to rest over the wound on his side. After several long seconds of silence, Tony had in irrational twinge of panic and prodded him in the arm. “Hey, are you fucking with me or are you really unconscious?”

“I was about to be, asshole,” Clint grumbled. “I’m tired, let me sleep until the food gets here.”

“Tell me next time. I thought you were, I don’t know, quietly bleeding out and I couldn’t see it because it’s a black couch or something.” Tony finally forced his legs to work, hobbling the two steps back to his chair.

“Stop freaking out. I’m not going to die from this,” Clint said gently and firmly. “Really.”

“Okay, okay. Take a nap, I’ll wake you in a little while.” Clint nodded once, satisfied that he was getting his way. But that didn’t mean Tony wasn’t going to be overly vigilant the entire time.  
__

 

It was a little after ten in the morning, and Tony was just rolling out of bed. He could use his own kitchen, take a few zombie-like swipes at the coffee pot until coffee happened, then eat some dry cereal and go straight to work. But instead he pulled on a robe and shuffled in the direction of the guest kitchen in the hopes that someone had taken pity on him and left some pre-made coffee out. 

He ached in just about every joint. Even his feet felt stiff, the result of too many hours of flying in the suit. The past couple of days had been hard and long, but they won in the end. Maybe he should take up yoga or flaxseed oil or whatever the fuck people his age did to preserve their flexibility. Instead he knocked back two ibuprofen found in the pocket of his robe. 

Quiet strains of music drifted out into the hallway and there was light and noise. Tony hesitated outside the door. The only occupant was Clint, but there were remains of several breakfasts sitting out. He was flipping pancakes without a spatula and humming, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder. Was that Bob Dylan coming out the speakers? Tony recognized the opening bars of the Hard Rain version of One Too Many Mornings. Huh. Not what he expected Clint’s musical tastes to include, but most of Clint had been something of a surprise so far. He wasn’t as secretive as Natasha, but he also wasn’t terribly forthcoming with the personal details. They just sort of…happened organically.

“Are you going to come eat some fucking pancakes or what?”

Tony nearly jumped out of his skin. Of course Clint knew he was standing there. “If your hair wasn’t so short I’d accuse you of hiding an extra set of eyes on the back of your head.” He took a mug and poured some coffee before settling on one of the kitchen stools.

“How do you know I’m not psychic?” Clint slid a plate of pancakes across the island, followed by bowl of berries and a fork.

“That would explain those absolutely unnatural blind shots you never seem to miss.”

“Naw, that’s just practice.”

Tony doused his pancakes in butter and syrup. They were as good as everything else Clint makes. “Where did you learn to shoot like that? Bow and arrow are not exactly standard SHIELD issue from what I’ve seen.”

Clint was washing dishes and seemed to pretend not to hear at first. Tony was about to repeat his question when he got an answer. “The circus.”

“The…circus. Are you being serious right now? I can’t tell.” True, Clint could keep amazingly straight-faced through the most ridiculous bullshit, but, somehow, it made perfect sense.

“Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. And some others. World’s Greatest Marksman at your service,” Clint clarified with a little bow and flourish. He splashed soapy water in Tony’s coffee accidentally.

Tony almost didn’t know how to respond. “No shit, you _are_ being serious. I don’t know if that’s the saddest or the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.” He probably should have chosen his words more carefully, Tony thought, as Clint looked shocked.

“Me neither,” Clint said. Then he laughed, honestly and heartily.

Tony joined in and it felt good. “I would have never let you in here if I had known you used to be a carnie.”

“Yeah, well I’m here to stay now, so deal with it.” Clint’s grin was wolfish and there was a playful spark in his gaze. Maybe Tony was still teetering on the brink of being a certifiable disaster, but at least he could count Clint as one of the better choices he’d made.


End file.
